Cat's in the Cradle
by Gwen Zenier
Summary: Harry and Ginny got married after the war, but when she is revealed to be pregnant years later, how will Harry react?


_Hi, this is my first fanfiction. I was listening to 'Cat's in the Cradle', and I thought, 'why not?' Enjoy!_

Harry Potter's heart pounded within his chest as his seemingly desperate wife forced him back into submission with her barbed accusations and hateful manipulations. He could have gotten angry. He could have stood up for himself, but he was just so tired. Ginevra was a mess. Tears stained her cheeks a dark black and her frantic hand gestures have yet to cease. The woman was the picture-perfect victim and he would not be her villain. At the same time, her excuses were nails on chalkboard, causing him to flinch and clench his jaw at intervals. As far as Harry was concerned, she lied to him, her husband. It was as simple as that. He told her how he felt about this… He could never be a good father. Not after all he has been through. But his wife had dismissed his concerns. She conspired against him and lied. But of course it is all his fault. Of course he was already her villain.

Months passed since that day and Harry Potter absorbed himself within his work. He ignored his ever-growing wife in favor of putting food on the table. Absence truly made his heart grow fonder. His righteous anger had since muted and the bitter taint of her lies faded into an unnoticed hue. His young and misguided wife wanted a family with him…there was nothing wrong with that. Harry wished she'd communicate more, but what was done is done. There is no changing the past. He could do this, if he tried. He could be a father… But blind panic will always overturn good intentions… It was one such letter that twisted the man's temporary calm into a maelstrom of raw emotion. The ripping hurt and anger and confusion with 'why's' echoed within his mind like a mad animal as the news of his wife in labor reached his ear. He can't do this. He's not ready. Abort. Abort. Abort. Yet the man didn't voice the mad mutterings to his excited counterpart. He didn't after all, want to be her villain. He would be there. He would smile. He would act. But he would be gone by morning. Harry needed to put food on the table after all. They would need more clothes and furniture. He would have to work more. Yes, that would work. Yet the trepidation refused to leave him, squirming in his stomach like large-worm monstrosities.

Years flew by like minutes on a clock and the working man fell into a comfortable schedule. Wake up at four in the morning. Go to work, even if said work could be done in the confinements of his home. End at around ten and kiss his wife goodnight. Head to the child's room. Kiss him goodnight. Go to sleep. Between the man's visits home the young boy-James- grew. He learned to walk and talk, and his smile never dimmed. From the corner of the room, the man heard a soft murmur which contents scared him even more than Voldemort or the Dursleys ever did: "I'm gonna be like you, dad. You know I'm gonna be like you." On that night, Harry choked and left Magical England without ever saying goodbye.

Time sped by in a blur and in a couple of days, the ever-smiling kid would turn ten. His first two-digit year. He would be a terrible father if he neglected the young kid on his first two-digit birthday, yet cancelling his appointment was not an option. It was important; he had to be there. His excuses fell on deaf ears as the banshee began to caterwaul once more. Good ol' Genevra apparently stopped speaking to him, waging in some sort of one-sided cold war until she had the right to complain and nag like an overbearing harpy. Sitting down all alone halfway across Wizarding England, the Auror glanced at the thoroughly-marked calendar. Harry couldn't be a good father now- not after all these years- but he could try. The man carefully wrapped up a small two-way mirror and his first snitch from his school years and owl-mailed it to the house. He wouldn't be back for two more weeks.

To say that Harry Potter was startled was an understatement. He had come home from the meeting to see his not-sleeping son leaning up against the bricks of the house, absentmindedly catching a worn snitch with one hand after releasing it into the air. For such a young boy, he looked contemplative; his normally sparkling blue eyes was a misty haze as he stared into space. The young Auror hesitated, not knowing how to handle his son, who obviously ignored curfew, and then uncertainly continued his stride to his house. The kid, upon seeing his much admired father, shot up from where he was sitting, wearing such a grin where Harry had to wonder whether or not it was painful. No, the kid didn't try to avoid curfew; his reactions were too excited for that… but his son wouldn't want to see him, surely…

"Dad! Thanks for the snitch, dad" James's hand ran over his messy mane of hair and his eyes shifted shyly, glancing back up at his ever-elusive father. He let out a weak chuckle, diverting his eyes again, before letting the snitch go into the air. "Come on; let's play!" The Auror caught the the golden ball with practiced ease, but the demeanor towards the compromising situation betrayed his discomfort. As his son met his eyes, the auror stopped dead, realization squirming in his gut. The kid broke the rules to see him. He was a bad influence, he knew…He couldn't be a good father; he didn't know how. He wasn't even home most of the time, admittedly to stay away from the splintering household, from the squawking demoness to the little, naïve, innocent…angel. It was best just to stay away. He was worthless at child-rearing after all… "Can you teach me to throw?" Dr. Slate shook his head, still in a daze.

"Not today, I got a lot to do." The same excuse he now used for everything slipped out of his mouth before he consciously allowed it. These excuses were for the best, he knew, but it didn't stop the aching whole within his chest from caving in further, slowly separating him from reality while saving him from his fears.

"That's Okay." The kid smiled and shrugged, struggling to cover his obvious disappointment and embarrassment. Sickening relief and blessed self-hatred ignited within his mind, echoing Thank G-d's, and no, it's not, I'm sorrys. You're a COWARD. Harry gave the child a tight smile and pivoted back toward the house, already forgetting about the kid's curfew in favor of escaping to comfort. He didn't hear the soft murmur as he walked away; the one that still haunted his dreams for years and will for years to come. "I'm gonna be like him… Yeah, You know I'm gonna be like him"

. . .

"…If he fails at least he fails while daring greatly; so that his place will never be among those timid and cold souls who know neither victory nor defeat." The Auror's stomach squirmed with anxiousness as he reread Theodore Roosevelt's famous passage once more. It has been a great many years since the kid's-no, young-man's tenth birthday and he has skipped many since then. What Roosevelt said really struck home, tearing through his cold and timid-fragile soul, convicting him to take up responsibility and be the father he wished he was to his one and only son, who just recently came from school. Even after all this wasted time he still could be a father to his son. It wasn't too late. It would only be too late when either of them lay six feet under. With that, the older doctor set his jaw in determination and left for home.

Opening up the door, Harry was filled with a sense of nostalgia. Memories when he and his wife were new, happy, content with the world- whirled within his mind. When they laughed and played quittich and cooked together, their smiles and laughs; The feeling of being finally whole after so long- of being unstoppable and perfect and happy like you could just…rule the world. A lot has changed since then. Genevra was quite now, and barely left her room. It, therefore, should not have been a surprise when his son that greeted him first. Here goes nothing… The Auror forced his stubborn lips into a cheap parody of a smile and patted the confused young man on his back. "So much like a man…" Harry ruffled his hair. "I just had to say Son, I'm proud of you." The Auror nodded to himself once, twice, and mentally patted himself on the back. He then gestured to the inside of the house, towards the empty living room. "Can you sit for a while?" The kid-Jamie, James- shook his head and smiled crookedly.

"What I'd really like, dad, is to get my apparation license. He motioned out the door toward the door. "See you later." What a failure he was. Harry tossed his elusive son the keys and headed toward the office. He wouldn't leave until four in the morning.

. . .

The Auror has long since retired and his son's moved away, but the regret-filled father had no happy recollections to fall comfortably back on, just memories of misused opportunity and wasted time. He was not a father, but a coward that couldn't pick up responsibility when he needed to. His work always seemed more important, and that worldview not only compromised his confidence, and happiness, but destroyed his once so vibrant wife. It resulted in a lonely boy who had to work for himself and a shattered dysfunctional family. He had let them down: he had abandoned them. His wife fell into depression and but refuses to take any potion. His son moved Magical England to America. Nevertheless, he could try now. He would try now. It was only fitting that the destroyer picked up the jigsaw pieces and sew the family back together. They would not be as close as he would like- it was far too late for that- but they could still could be close enough. As the trembling old man picked up a two way mirror, an ominous feeling settling over him like a shadow yet to come.

The wait was excruciating, but to see his son's face was well worth it. Angels might has well been singing in the background he was so relieved. "I'd like to see you if you don't mind." The young father on the other line had kept the mirror, leaving a guilty, yet pleased feeling in the retired man's gut. Yet the next sentence hit him like a ton of bricks.

"I'd love to, Dad, if I had the time. You see….my new job's a hassle and the kid's got the flu. But it's sure nice talking to you, dad." He went quiet for another second and repeated softly, "It's been sure nice talking to you." And as the lonely Auror hung up the phone, it occurred to him that what came out of his mouth was such a familiar use of an excuse. His job was a hassle. And the Kid-the use of the word kid….His son's excuse was just as fake and hallow as his was. His son truly grown up just like him. His boy was just like him.


End file.
